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Driving Lessons Chapter 50 - Cherry Bomb
France was a happy soul. This was because he was in a car with a handsome man. Scratch that. He was in a car with a handsome man dressed as a clown.
"Where are you taking me?" the poor man said. Again.
France spun the steering wheel and headed down through Central London. "Have you ever been to Paris, Fabian?"
"No and my name's not Fabian. It's Brian."
France reached across and rubbed the man's nylon red wig, "Ah mon cher, you have not lived!"
Brian/Fabian almost screamed as their car went the wrong way around a roundabout, halting the London red busses and causing an Uber taxi driver to hoot his horn most aggressively. (Calling it 'their' car is wrong actually. It was stolen.)
"Ah ze English. So uptight!" France said.
"I think we should take this car back. I told you this isn't my car."
"Ah mon cher. You need to aspire to greater things. I bet CoCo ze clown did not drive a Ford," France shuddered. Of all the cars in the zoo car park. They had stolen a virulent yellow Peugeot. "Ah French cars, mon cher. Zere is nothing better. Apart from ze Ferrari zat I long for like a lover…"
The clown edged away from him in his seat. The strange effete Frenchman who was incomprehensibly dressed in pink lurex shorts and a yellow poncho had promised to take him to the Alabama Gay Rodeo convention, but it seemed he'd been kidnapped.
England was unaware of the zoo clown's predicament - although he would have been highly sympathetic. He'd spent many a horrid moment stuck in a car with France and his terrible driving. In fact, France's driving was even worse than Italy's and that was saying something.
At the present time though he was stood in his allotment shed looking down a hole.
"You are a terrible person, Arthur," Poland told him, with his hand on his hip (his own hip, not England's hip).
England looked up and round at the people looking expectantly at him.
Hungary shaking her head in disapproval, America looking bewildered, several security officers who all seemed to be under Poland's command (which England could not understand at all), Poland himself looking a little bored, Henry VI who was reading a script and asking anyone who would listen (nobody did) if he could play a credible medieval king (probably not), Sealand smirking and last of all, a fairy.
It was the presence of the fairy that disturbed England far more than the fruit cake in the hole.
"I just don't understand you, Tinks. I always looked after you," he said. For the fourth time.
"She works for me now," Hungary told him. "Get used to it."
"But she's been with me for years!"
"Yes well, I offered dental, comprehensive health insurance and five weeks paid leave," Hungary said.
Poland nodded. "All fairies should be entitled to a holiday," he said knowingly.
England didn't agree. What on earth would a fairy need with a holiday? Besides as far as he knew, Tinkerbell tended to just bugger off as and when she felt like it anyway and never asked him. He'd once had the temerity to ask her and she'd zapped him with her wand. Life lesson learned there the hard way - never piss off a drunk fairy. It had taken four weeks for his eyebrows to grow back.
"Never mind all that," America butted in. "What about my tail?"
"Tinks could you sort out his tail? Just as a favour to me?" England pleaded.
"She says no," Hungary said. "Now are you going to sort out this fruitcake?"
"He's a fruitcake," America said, looking at England.
"I have no idea what the problem is," England said, ignoring America for a moment. He scratched his head. "I used a recipe from the Good Housekeeping magazine. One of Mary Berry's. There isn't a problem with it. I have no idea why it's here though."
"It's bloody glowing, man," America pointed out. He was right.
"It's a Christmas cake. I thought I'd put it in that Quality Street tin to save it for next Christmas," England explained.
"I might go back home to the States this Christmas," America said.
"Why is it ticking, Arthur?" Hungary asked.
England noticed that his fellow Nations had stopped calling him by his Nation name and now he was just 'Arthur' as if they'd lost all respect for him. Which they had. He'd gotten used to the security services not saluting him or calling him 'Sir' - although it still rankled that they even saluted the idiot American.
He sighed, "I have no idea. It shouldn't tick."
"Well der… it's a cake. Cakes should not tick." Poland said in a bored voice.
"Dad should have his recipe books taken off him. He's dangerous," Sealand said.
England bent down to examine his cake. "I wonder if I overdid the baking soda?"
Everyone stepped back as he poked the cake.
"You're quite brave really, aren't you, Arthur?" Hungary said.
"It's a bloody cake," England said impatiently. "I don't know why it's ticking though."
"And it's counting down," Sealand observed.
He was right. The clock was counting down. It had read 12:00:00 which England had been annoyed at - that hadn't been the time - it was surely later than midday. But now it read 11:57:00.
"Oh my God! The small person is correct!" Hungary said. She nodded to the security men. "Get a cordon set up. Sandbags around the shed. Ten mile exclusion zone. Go."
"Hmmm… well whatever it's counting down to, we have 11 hours to sort it out. So put that kettle on, Hungary and make us a brew."
"Are you asking me because I'm a woman?" Hungary asked.
"I thought Hungary was a bloke?" Sealand whispered to America. (Probably in retaliation for Hungary calling him a 'small person'.)
"Dunno," America said, "But to be honest, if he's going to start poking his baking, I'm going to haul ass as I bet my new Prez needs me."
"So much for being the hero," Poland said as the American hurried out.
England turned to Hungary, "I was asking you because you're stood next to the kettle." He shook his head at America. "Let him go. He's never understood my cooking."
"Dad, none of us have," Sealand said, "I remember your lemon drizzle cake…" The boy shuddered. "And when Great British Bake Off started it just got more horrendous." He turned big teary eyes on Hungary. "You have no idea what it was like growing up with him."
"I thought you brought yourself up on a fort in the middle of the North Sea?" Poland asked, looking suspicious.
"Yeah but I still had to spend every third weekend with him. When he wasn't training with some crack undercover bakers or something…"
"Undercover SAS!" England yelled.
"Or gay rodeo riders," Sealand added and raised an eyebrow. "I don't believe any of that. He always has an excuse not to have me over. But he always has America over. I can't stand Alfred. He's a right show-off and he's got my bedroom now. Although he does have all the latest Playstation games. He's spoilt."
Nobody was listening.
A man with impressive epaulets came in and saluted Hungary, "The perimeter is secured, Sir."
"Good," she replied. "Arthur, do you stuff." She turned to leave, pulling Poland and Sealand with her. Tinkerbell made a rude a gesture at England and flew after her.
England cracked his knuckles, "Just you and me, cake," he said.
"And me, Arthur," came a voice.
"Oh bloody hell, King Henry! I forgot you were there!"
"If I may say. It looks as if you've put too many cherries in that cake, Arthur."
England ignored him. They were now alone in the shed. Outside, Poland, Hungary, Sealand and a bevy of Security men, soldiers and police were crouching behind sandbags.
"How bad is this likely to be?" Hungary asked the most senior looking soldier.
"Seriously? The last cake almost got to the Thames, from there it could have reached the English Channel. London is still rebuilding. The whole of the south of the river was splattered with sponge. Experts thinks that it will take years before it's habitable again."
"That was the buttercream icing," Sealand said. He looked sad. "I thought Uncle Den and Gilbert had eaten most of it?"
"Not all of it, Sir." (England would have been appalled to hear that Sealand was still being called 'sir'.). "Parts of it keeping turning up in the sewers." The man turned to Hungary. "It's still sentient, Sir."
Hungary nodded. "Then let's hope that moron in there can diffuse that bomb, I mean, er, cake."
"So what do you think I should do?" England asked Henry.
"I don't know, but I think you should have attempted to magic that boy Alfred's tail away. I mean the poor boy will have to fly home on one of those big metal bird things with a tail. He'll get bullied."
England doubted that. America never got bullied. He on the other hand…
His phone rang. "What? I'm doing it! Of course I know what I'm doing! Honestly, calm down. It's just a bloody cake! Yes yes I did use cherries. And sultanas. Tell Peter to shut up." England yelled and switched it off. "Hungary," he explained to King Henry's raised eyebrow.
"Do I need to get out of the way? I'm thinking if I go back four hundred years I might be safe," King Henry said.
"Everyone's a comedian," England muttered and made himself a mug of tea. He was disappointed that the only usable receptacle was a Manchester United mug. Also there were only two teabags left. Clearly, he was going to have to get on with it. Or go to Tesco's.
"I think you should cut the red wire," King Henry said.
England looked at him, "I thought you were going to go back four hundred years?"
"I think you need help," King Henry said.
England had no idea how a dead medieval king was going to help him diffuse a bomb/cake. 'What red wire? How do you know? You didn't have bombs back then. I remember."
"No, because if there had been, you can bet Edward of York would have used them. Nasty piece of work. He stole my crown, Arthur. Remember?"
"It was a long time ago, dear old bean." England sighed, taking a sip from his tea and grimacing. The milk was off. There were also no biscuits. Clearly, Denmark and Prussia had eaten them all. There was a discarded tin bath still full of bubbles in the corner and a pile of empty beer cans. Disgusting.
"Have you done it yet, Arthur?" Someone (possibly Hungary) yelled from outside.
England ignored her. He peered at the wires attached to the cake leading to the timer that was ticking down. This was a delicate operation, requiring nerves of steel and a steady hand.
"Bloody get on with it!" Someone outside yelled.
"Morons," England muttered. "Blue wire or red wire… blue or red… blue or red…"
"Or yellow," King Henry said.
"What?" England almost dropped his tea.
"There's a yellow wire."
"Don't be stupid. Why am I even listening to you?" England frowned and looked at the timer. "Damn." It now read 09:00:03. "I presume that's nine minutes and not hours? Oh bloody bugger."
"How do I know? I don't have a watch," King Henry said. "I think I'm going to get out of here…"
"You're already bloody dead! How can the bomb hurt you?"
"This is one of your cakes, Arthur. I think even being dead won't keep a person safe."
England looked at the dead king, "If you can't think of anything to say that's useful just bugger off and go get me some custard creams or something."
"Where do I get such things?"
"There's a Co-op down the road, just go there." England tossed him some money. "And hurry up."
"I think I should have gone with the American boy," Henry said as he dissipated.
England took another sip of tea and checked the clock. 07:31:05. He tried to remember the actual recipe he had used. And what joker had attached the wires and the timer? He couldn't actually see any dynamite or TNT. Somebody was obviously having a laugh.
He looked at his phone and pressed the icon that said 'youtube'. The boy (meaning America) had shown him that this 'youtube' had instructional videos for everything.
He flicked through idly. "How to… do your own makeup, how to cut your own hair… honestly, really? How to pick up women…" here England paused and thought about watching this one but then realised that he was wasting time and he had a planet to save (or at least Inner London), "How to stop your coworkers eating your food… Interesting…" England would have watched this also but was aware of the clock ticking. "…How to colour your own hair… how to learn Russian in two weeks…hold on! Is that Ivan Braginski? No don't have time… How to make the perfect Victoria sponge… hmmm… how to unblock a toilet… Watch Arthur make a cake...Wait what?"
He frowned and thought about this for a moment and then clicked on the link and watched. He saw himself making a cake which then exploded. "What in the name of Captain Jack is this?" he shouted.
There were other videos that had gone 'viral'. Titled 'Anglo-French gay couple cause havoc in London' or 'Anglo-French gay couple wreck a Ferrari', and 'Anglo-French gay couple drop a desk on a Mercedes'.
Somebody had used some kind of dash-cam (England thought it was called a cam-dash) to film England and France's recent incidents and subsequently uploaded these to Youtube. England could now understand his neighbours' aversion to him - they'd obviously seen these videos (they hadn't) and why Her Majesty sniggered when she saw him (she did) and why his Prime Minister thought he was drunk. It all now made sense. He would have his revenge. He suspected who it was.
But there was no time for signing this person up for penis-enlargement emails, sending them a life-time subscription for 'Roundabouts of Britain' magazine or even sending Francis over for a weekend party (but perhaps that was taking revenge too far).
"This is as stressful as Great British Bake Off," England said to himself. "Ah here we are. 'How to diffuse a cake'." He watched the video quickly. He tried to ignore the comments underneath: 'Very useful when dealing with Arthur Kirkland's battenburg cake thank you - Francis Chevalier Bonaparte Bonnefoy'. He would have words later with his fellow Nations. England gritted his teeth. Bloody France. Ha bloody ha.
05:32:00. He'd better get a shifty on. He dug around in the cupboard and found his secateurs. They needed a clean. Someone, probably Prussia - the yob - had been using them to make a sandwich. There was butter on them. England wiped them on a rag, which turned out to be a Danish flag, and then hesitated over the wires.
Really, what could possibly happen if he cut the wrong wire? The Christmas cake couldn't possibly hurt him could it?
Then his phone buzzed and the tinny sound of the Coronation Street theme tune filled the shed.
"I'm doing it right now!" He yelled down the phone. "Honestly, woman!" He shouted, thinking it was Hungary. (Although in all honesty he wouldn't normally yell at her.)
"Doing what, England?" It was Russia.
"Diffusing a cake," England said, exasperated and peering at the cake. The video had made it look easy. Cross over the blue and red wires and then snip the red. But… there was a yellow wire, just as King Henry had said.
"Is that an English custom?" Russia asked.
"Russia, is it the red wire you snip? What happens if there's a yellow one?" England asked. Surely Russia would know?
"I think it would be the red one, but it depends. Is there a brown one?"
"What?"
"I want to ask you a question. Do you use your understairs cupboard a lot?"
"What?"
"I think, England, that you have a problem with your hearing."
England frowned, "Well as much as I would like to carry on with this insanity, Russia, I have to go. I hope Miss Belarus did not catch up with you…"
"She will never find me here. Her and her balloon…" Russia said mysteriously.
England shuddered, "I'm going into a tunnel, bye…"
04:19:01. Time was going fast. England checked his own watch. A Mickey Mouse contraption that America had given him for his last birthday. It had never kept proper time. Just like its giver. So blue or red wire? Or even yellow… He considered Russia's comment. Should there be a brown one? Should he be worried?
04:01:00. Four minutes left. Loads of time really. You could boil an egg in that time. But not eat it. A soft-boiled egg of course, not a hard-boiled one.
Eggs. How many eggs had he put in this cake? He couldn't really remember which recipe he'd used. Why on earth had he put it down there? He remembered the tin though. He kept such old chocolate and biscuit tins for his cakes. But often had to tape the lids down or the cake would escape. That had only happened twice.
He shook himself. Arming himself with the secateurs, he prepared to cut the red wire. Or the blue one. He wavered. Holding the wires in his hands and was about to cut when…
"Yo! I know you need the hero, so here I am!"
England jumped half a foot into the air and the cake went with him.
"Woah there!" America caught it in his hands. "Phew! I should play for the Cubs." Whatever that bloody meant.
"You couldn't get a bloody flight could you?"
"Nah… and besides that, my new Prez has cancelled my gold credit card. I left here, rang American Airlines, Delta, even United, that's how bad it was and none of them would take my card!" America said, ten to the dozen. "Did you miss me, dude?" He'd only been gone five minutes England noted. He couldn't have got to the bottom of the road.
America gave the cake back to England, took the secateurs from him and cut the blue wire.
England almost screamed and then went quiet when nothing happened.
The timer carried on ticking.
02:03:04.
"Oh well…" America said.
England peered at the timer and then had a brainwave. "Do you have a screwdriver?" He asked.
America emptied his pockets - a headless Superman, a baseball card, a pack of chewing gum, a (now defunct) Amex credit card, a very battered mobile phone, a single dollar, a lump of blu-tac and a screwdriver. He gave the latter to England.
England was now truly working against the clock and sweat beaded on his brow. America mopped it for him.
He carefully unscrewed the back of the timer.
'Careful, man, careful," America said, preparing to mop his brow again and then taking the secateurs from him. They looked like a montage from a hospital drama. Except for the tail.
"Steady hand, old chap," England muttered and… took out the batteries.
The timer stopped at 00:00:07.
"Saved the world from a fruit cake, man." America said and then shouted out of the door, "Yo! I did it!" He then amended this when he saw England's eyebrows shoot up, "I mean, er, we did it! Don't worry… The cake's safe."
America turned and almost fell over when England broke a piece of the cake off and chewed it. "You're the bravest Nation I know, man." America said in hushed tones.
England smiled.
"…Apart from Poland, I mean. And dude Lithuania who lived with fat Russkie, and then there's me of course and Hungary pretty hard and of course there's my bro Canadia who was amaze-balls in the War, man. But after them…" America continued.
"Of course," Hungary said as she watched England chase America down the road with a large piece of fruit cake, "The question is, who put the cake there and who put the timer on it? Who's really behind all this?"
Further chapters:
Group therapy
Arthur goes on holiday